


Hotter Than I Should Be

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gossip Girl Fusion, HaiKise Week, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-04
Updated: 2015-08-04
Packaged: 2018-04-12 21:22:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they're in their own little penthouse world</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotter Than I Should Be

The creaky doors to the balcony swing open; Ryouta turns. It’s only Shougo, unaccompanied and carrying two glasses—Ryouta will at least partially remember this summer as the one where Shougo discovered vodka martinis. On one hand, it’s gotten past the point of novelty that he’s trying to make it his signature drink (and he thinks it’s so sophisticated, probably thinks he’s James Bond or something) but on the other, Shougo willingly makes them for Ryouta, too, and even something as simple as that is still, in its way, thoughtful.

“For me? Aww, Shougo-kun.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re more fun when you’re drunk,” says Shougo, putting both glasses down on the table and sitting down across from him.

“I’m not the one half-past sober at three in the afternoon,” Ryouta says.

Shougo scowls, leaning back and pulling up the sleeves of his grey Valentino suit jacket. It’s still too hot to be wearing suits outside in this weather, and even Ryouta’s had the sense to leave his own jacket draped over the back of Shougo’s desk chair before the party even said so. Shougo gulps down half the martini in one go, staring off at the skyline in front of him, the uneven rise of buildings and the East River beyond that, through a mixture of smog and light mist. From this angle and with this much cloud covering they can’t see how far down the sun’s gotten, or even its reflection off the glass towers on either side. The late summer air is still and stiff and humid and even though they’re so many feet off the ground Ryouta can almost smell the hot, wet garbage wafting up from the sidewalk, brought out early by the building superintendent because he doesn’t want to get up at some ridiculously early hour after he’s been out late partying and repairing the damage from all the tenants’ parties, the last gasping efforts of a summer that built up too slowly to really get going in the first place and seems as if it’s ending even sooner than the usual too-soon (any day the disgusting smell of old school buildings will be upon them and the hiss of badly-kept radiators will keep them from sleeping in their desks when they can barely focus after an all-night mix of studying and shitty television and social events).

To be fair, Shougo’s parties don’t require any staff assistance to clean up and are always pretty low-key; nobody’s Manolos get thrown up on and no piece of the chandelier is cracked and no one clogs the toilets with anything they shouldn’t be flushing down there. And how guys like Shougo and his brother (whose scene Shougo basically inherited, because he’s really not cool at all despite how much he clearly things he is) manage to get away with their mother’s precious apartment still unscathed considering their shared penchant for attracting trouble, well—Ryouta’s glad, at least. It means he doesn’t have to deal with Shougo getting mad at more than the usual stuff, and he doesn’t have to wake up to a heavy-duty cleanup from the night before.

“You know, Shougo-kun, you’re not being a very good host,” Ryouta says. “You’re out here when you could be entertaining.”

“You don’t want me around?” Shougo says, throwing out his arms to either side with a lopsided grin.

Yeah, he’s definitely a little bit tipsy what with the time of day and however much vodka he’d had before Ryouta had arrived, but the little half-smile on his face is decidedly cute.

“Exactly,” says Shougo. “You know you want me. You know you want to be with me.”

Ryouta rolls his eyes. This part might have been cute the first time, but it isn’t at this point, especially when they’ve been dating (or whatever they’d call it) for months. And it’s not really Shougo being tipsy; it’s Shougo using the alcohol as an excuse for the most part.

“Ryouta…”

He leans forward in his seat, tie falling against the table with the silk pooling on top of the glass like syrup. Ryouta leans in and kisses his lips, numb from alcohol; his tongue is sloppy in Ryouta’s mouth and he licks his lips when they’re done.

“That’s gross, Shougo-kun.”

Shougo shrugs. His face is flushed; it really is getting too hot out here, way too hot for them to stay away from the air conditioning any longer, and Shougo’s actually ahead of him on this one, rising slowly and turning toward the door, leaving his half-empty glass on the table.

The people in the apartment aren’t Shougo’s friends; they’re acquaintances (like that Mochizuki guy) or friends of his brother or people who travel in their social circles who haven’t quite figured out that networking with Shougo will get you nowhere further than this kind of party—not that it’s a bad party, because it’s a nice change to have the music on low without someone like Aomine decide to play DJ (no matter how much Ryouta loves him, he has terrible taste in music) and without it smelling like sweat because it’s packed to the brim.

The air inside is still simmering, not with heat because the apartment’s got great central air, but with tension, as if the heavy curtains drawn back from the windows are about to fly up in some nonexistent wind that’s brewing somewhere any second now, as if the open bottle of rum at the edge of the bar will tip over and fall on its own accord and catch fire and set everything ablaze. Ryouta’s hand finds Shougo’s. No one’s even looked up to nod at them since they entered the room; someone else slips onto the balcony, probably for a smoke break or a breath of a different kind of air. Shougo’s room is just down the hall, ten steps from the entrance to the living room (Ryouta knows exactly; he’s stayed here often enough to memorize it backward and forward and inside out and dead drunk and high out of his mind and feverish and tired as shit and whatever the hell kind of altered state he’s in right now). Shougo’s suit is already so creased, the inside so stained (because he’d bought it at a thrift shop in Alphabet City and not full-price at Barney’s the way he tells people but no one gets close enough to notice) and the bed is so close.

Ryouta thinks he might be drowning when Shougo pushes him down, until he rolls over and pins Shougo to the bed and laughs. Shougo nips at his collarbone, but that’s exactly what he wants; he’s got Shougo in the palm of his hand, pressed hip-to-hip and mouth-to-numb-mouth.


End file.
